


Ave Maria, Gratia Plena

by showmaster64x



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14405289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showmaster64x/pseuds/showmaster64x
Summary: After the war has ended, Draco Malfoy discovers that the Dark Lord might not be as dead as everyone thinks. He intends to finish him once and for all, but he will need the help of Harry Potter. Mpreg.





	1. Chapter 1

Another mpreg since I cant seem to make myself write anything else. At least the HP universe lends itself to it nicely. WARNINGS: mpreg (sort of) non-con (sort of). It wont make sense until later chapters. This is absolutely not epilogue compliant. No happily-ever-afters here.

I haven't read the books in a few years. I apologize for errors or inconsistencies.

 Chapter 1

.o.o.o.o.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.  
Blessed art thou amongst women,  
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  
Holy Mary, Mother of God,  
pray for us sinners,  
now and at the hour of our death. Amen. 

 

It had been the most uncertain few hours of their lives, from the moment the Dark Lord's body hit the ground until the time the Aurors finally saw fit to bind them up and drag them away. When that time came, they didn't resist or fight or deny, for it could not be like the last time. No amount of money or influence could save them. Their hands were red, quite literally, with blood.

Though to be fair, a good deal of it was their own. 

They huddled together in the corner of the desecrated greathall. The battle for Hogwarts had ended, but the chaos of the aftermath was still rampant. Bodies littered the ground. Towers and retaining walls had been reduced to rubble. Cries of despair and agony pieced the air. Glances were spared for them, but no one dared approach them yet. 

Draco sat numbly, listening to his mother's quiet sobs.

Lucius had his arms around his wife and son, fingers clamped tightly on each of their shoulders as he held them both, as if he could use his body to shield them from what was to happen next. 

They had come back for him. They might have chosen to flee once the battle was lost but they chose to forfeit their lives in order to seek out their lost son. A quick glance around showed Draco that they had not been the only Death Eaters to do so. It was something the 'light' side would never understand. For most of his followers, it had never been about serving the Dark Lord. It had been about preserving families, preserving a way of life. No price was too high, no act too despicable. The ends justified the means. 

“Father...” Draco whispered, breaking the unbearable silence. Lucius stared back at him, his eyes wide and glassy and a bit crazed. He knew. He knew their time was running out. 

“I am the only one who shall face execution for this,” Lucius said as if he so desperately wished to believe it. “I will make certain neither of you shall see Azkaban if it is the last thing I do.”

Narcissa choked on her next sob and she clung to her husband's blood-splattered robes. 

“You will endure,” Lucius commanded them, hands tightening in hopeless reassurance, “Because you are Malfoys.”

The Aurors came not long after that, prying them away from one another, taking Lucius first. Then Narcissa. Then Draco. Tears stained their faces and they each took care to memorize the look in each others eyes. They all knew well this could be the last any of them saw of their family. It could be their final good-bye. 

.o.o.o.o.o.

Lucius intended to make good on his promise to them. There was no time for failure. Even though the old administration was in its death throes, the Malfoy name still commanded enough respect in the higher echelons that Lucius was able to delay his summary execution long enough to see through a final request. 

Some might have considered it odd, that as Lucius Malfoy sat in Azkaban awaiting the end of his life, he would wish an audience with the boy who was, arguably, responsible for his unfortunate fate. 

Harry Potter did not disappoint, arriving at the wizard prison flanked by a number of young guards that Lucius knew he could easily strike down if only he still had his wand. That thought would get him nowhere, however. 

“Leave us,” Potter commanded the others imperiously. They looked hesitant for a moment, but then reluctantly obeyed. It seemed the savior of the wizarding world was not to be questioned, even on matters where his own safety was a concern. 

The two of them, once alone, stared at each other for some time. The boy exuded confidence, power, and a deep, simmering anger. Had he not cloaked himself in holy righteousness, Lucius realized that standing in his presence would have felt no different than standing in the presence of the Dark Lord himself. 

“I knew you'd come. I was told you can't resist a soul in need of saving,” Lucius remarked with a quiet chuckle.

“There is no saving you, Malfoy,” Potter answered darkly, “ I couldn't even if I'd wanted to, even if I could somehow ignore the legions of innocents that you so callously murdered.”

“You are right, Potter. I am beyond hope. If you believe I asked you here simply to beg for my life then you are no less a fool than the day you charged headlong into the Department of Mysteries in order to save Black.”

Potter made a noise of fury, stepping forward to grab the bars of the cell, but Lucius continued speaking.

“My wife and son. They are innocent.”

“They are not!” Potter snarled.

“They are redeemable!” Lucius corrected, equally harsh, “They never shared my vision, but they went along with it, regardless. They knew I only wanted what was best for all of us.”

“And you stupidly believed that Voldemort could provide it for you,” Potter finished. Lucius did not hang his head in shame or apologize. The boy would never understand. 

“The new ministry will take everything from us purebloods,” Lucius explained, “They will seize our properties, clean out our vaults, and drive those low ranking enough to avoid Azkaban out of the country entirely. You do not realize the consequences that will arise from this. The old, pureblood families are what hold our society together. Without us, old magics and histories will be lost forever, traditions will die out, businesses will close. There will be inflation and unemployment-”

“There is nothing I can do,” the boy cut him off. He looked suddenly weary, as if Lucius had just made him personally responsible for these future problems. “You made your choice. You could have renounced him at any time.” 

Again, Lucius refused to be drawn into a debate. There wasn't enough time left in his life.

“Potter, I am asking you to save my family. Protect Draco and Narcissa from the worst of what is to come. You know the looming trials are to be held before a kangaroo court. There is no one who would dare defend them.” Lucius had been sitting against the wall, but now he shifted forward so that he was on his knees. “I... am begging you, Potter. I do not wish my wife or son to see the inside of this horrid place. They would not last long in here.”

Potter had gone silent while he regarded Lucius. Likely he was thinking back to a few years ago, when the entire ministry had been against him. When he had been an outcast of society, the Boy who Lied, tried as a criminal for underage magic. Yes, the boy had sympathy. 

“I will do my best to see that your son and wife receive a fair trial,” he looked away from Lucius as he said this, anger momentarily forgotten. “You have my word.”

“And you have my gratitude.” 

Potter bristled again at this, uncomfortable perhaps that he'd found himself speaking so civilly with a long-time enemy. He turned away, heading for the door, pausing there for a moment..

“Your death will be painless,” he said quietly, “I'll make sure of it.” Lucius closed his eyes, head bowing. He would not have expected such mercy, not after all that had happened. As he listened to Potter's retreating footsteps he realized that he might have hedged his bets at the perfect moment after all. 

.o.o.o.o.o.

They didn't send dementors to Draco's cell as an escort like they'd done with his father when he once sat in the ministry detention level. He supposed they couldn't. The dementors were still rogue entities, masterless without the guidance of the Dark Lord, but not yet rounded up and returned to their Azkaban posts by the ministry. 

They sent Aurors instead. Two young witches and a young wizard. They were green things, fresh out of training, Draco supposed. Their ranks had been thinned by the war, and he doubted there were many older ones left. Draco thought he recognized the boy's face as one he'd once seen at Hogwarts. Yes, he'd been the Hufflepuff prefect in Draco's first year. He didn't remember a name, however, and good thing. It made the hate easier. 

“We've come to escort you to your hearing, Mr. Malfoy,” one of the witches said. Draco replied with nothing as he got to his feet and allowed their magical bindings to snake around his wrists. 

The holding cells of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were in the pits of the Ministry, but the courtrooms were deeper still, so deep that the lifts didn't even travel down that far. Courtroom four was a circular room. Witches and wizards in scarlet and black robes sat in the risers, like carrion on their perches and waiting to devour anything placed before them. 

There were two chairs set before the Wizenagamot. One of them was already filled by the petite form of his mother. She had been slowly wasting away since the Dark Lord had come to occupy their manor, but now she looked positively skeletal. Draco didn't much care, however, because he'd already assumed her dead. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes upon realizing he was not yet alone. 

They put him in the second chair and the chains slithered up over his arms. 

“Mother!” he called to her. “Mother!” he said again when she did not respond. Slowly, she turned her head to regard her son and a look of shock broke her stony expression.

“Draco,” she whispered as though she could not believe he was there with her, “You're alive.” He wished he could embrace her. He wished to put his arms around her and lay his head on her shoulder like he was a young boy again, but alas, his bindings would not allow for it. 

A booming voice spoke from above.

“Sentencing hearing of the fifteenth of July.” It was Kingsley Shacklebolt speaking, who had apparently become the new Minister of Magic in the time Draco had spent in his cell. His voice had no inflection in it, no particular malice or sympathy, and Draco was left to wonder if this was to his advantage or not. Surely he and his mother would find themselves in Azkaban after this, despite whatever last plot his father might have concocted. The only question now was to discover if they might stay long enough to die there. Shacklebolt rattled off the names of interrogators and when he reached the end something odd happened. A woman stood from the crowd above and spoke in a hesitant, but clear voice.

“Witness for the defense, Hermione Granger.” 

Granger? Draco's eyes had locked onto her as soon as the first word came from her lips. The mudblood, willing to come to his aid? What sort of new game was this? Shacklebolt must have been thinking something similar, but he did not object to Granger's outburst, instead waiting wearily whilst the young woman stepped down from the risers to join the Malfoys upon the ground. The Wizenagemot was muttering and stirring. Perhaps not all of them had known beforehand that Granger, lauded friend of the Savior, was to intercede in this trial. 

“Narcissa Malfoy, you are called before the Wizenagamot today a witch accused of aiding and abetting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during his second war, inciting violence against muggles and muggle-borns, and harboring known criminals in your place of residence,” Shacklebolt said in a calm voice that belied the severity of the situation. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” Narcissa answered in a breathy whisper. Shacklebolt then turned to Draco.

“Draco Malfoy, you are called before the Wizenagomot today a wizard accused of aiding and abetting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during his second war, inciting violence against muggles and muggle-borns, and as well, you have been named accomplice in the murder of Albus Dumbledore. How do you plead.”

“Guilty,” Draco responded. Why should he say anything else? It wasn't as if he'd any friends in this courtroom.

“Minister, if I may,” Granger began strongly, stepping into the spotlight, “I should like to present new evidence to this court. Evidence of mitigating circumstances. For this, I would call upon a witness.”

Draco was struck dumb in that moment. Never in all his wildest fantasies of escaping these hell-trials did he imagine that Granger would be the one to step forward and defend him. Theirs was an impossible case to argue, even if friends of the Malfoy family had still sat the Wizenagamot and even if the current Minister had not actively fought against them in past battles. 

Draco's lip curled into a sneer when the witness was called upon. The doors to the courtroom opened again and who stood there, framed in the hall's torchlight, but Potter. The Boy who Lived... twice now, was it? Potter. The Savior. Merlin, the prat did have some sort of complex, didn't he?

Draco's eyes followed Potter as he took the stand. The interim months had treated him well. He was... quite fit, that is to say, built. There was more muscle on that skinny frame than Draco remembered, but something about his eyes remained haunted. He caught Draco's gaze for a moment and held it. It was Draco who scowled and looked away. 

How dare he? How dare he come here when he was not wanted? No one had asked his help, his or Granger's. 

“Will you submit to questioning under the influence of Veritaserum?” Shacklebolt asked Potter.

“I will,” the younger man answered. A flask was delivered into his hand, from which he drank quickly. Granger began at once and Draco realized he could do nothing but sit and watch the performance, for this could be nothing else. 

“Mr. Potter, I was wondering if you could tell us, that is the Wizenagamot, about what happened to you in the Forbidden Forest just before the Battle for Hogwarts.”

“I entered the Forest and sought out Voldemort, intending to turn myself in to him,” Potter replied, the Veritaserum making his voice sound dull and lifeless. However, the witches and wizards above suddenly sat rigid in their seats, all suddenly paying rapt attention to what began as just another Death Eater trial. According to the whispers, and the bits of the Prophet that Draco was able to borrow from his more merciful prison guards, Potter had not given any statements on his defeat of the Dark Lord. He hadn't said or done much of anything in the interim months aside from shut himself away from the world. No one knew the story, and the eye witness accounts could only fill in so many gaps. 

“Why is that?” Granger prompted.

“I believed, at that time, that I had to die first in order for Voldemort to finally be killed.”

Of course Potter wouldn't just die, he had to make himself a fucking martyr. 

“But you did not die,” Granger observed.

“No. The killing curse was cast upon me by Voldemort, but it did not kill me.”

A shudder traveled up Draco's spine. What sort of wizard was immune to the killing curse? It was positively unholy. Unnatural. Terrifying. 

“But Voldemort accepted that you were dead for a brief time. How is that possible?”

“He ordered Narissa Malfoy to check my body to ensure my death. She knew I was alive, but told Voldemort otherwise.”

“So she lied. She lied to Lord Voldemort, a man who, according to this court, she served faithfully until his death,” Granger concluded. Draco could not help turn to his mother then, and he was sure a look of shock had distorted his carefully impassive expression. She had done that? But why? Surely not for Potter's benefit, right? She had been a loyal servant...

But Potter had taken the Veritaserum, therefore it had to be mostly true. Narcissa sat straight in her chair, her chin now held just a fraction higher than it had been. Her eyes slid to Draco, as if daring him to judge her.

“Yes, she lied,” Potter confirmed, and the members of the Wizenagamot shifted uncomfortably. A few scribes in the corners however, seemed positively delighted with the testimony. They surely were reporters for the Prophet or other such rags, ravenous individuals unable to contain their hunger for previously untold war tales. 

“And it was because of this lie that you were able to be brought back to Hogwarts and gain the element of surprise just before killing the most dangerous dark wizard of all time.”

“Yes.”

Draco attempted to wrap his mind around that. It couldn't have been intentional. His mother could not have known Potter would be victorious in the end, could she have? Granger was speaking again, however, and Draco could not dwell on this revelation for long.

“Let's move onto Draco Malfoy. You attended Hogwarts with him, correct?” Granger pressed on. 

“Yes. We are in the same year,” Potter answered easily.

“When did you suspect that he might have become a Death Eater?”

“In sixth year. I thought he'd been given the Mark. I followed him around throughout the year and overheard several conversations implying that Voldemort had entrusted him with an assignment.”

Draco sneered. Entrusted? It had been a punishment... and that fact had been so humiliatingly obvious.

“And that assignment was?”

“To murder Albus Dumbledore.”

“You were present the night Dumbledore died, weren't you, Harry?”

“I was. I witnessed it.”

“Can you explain what happened?”

“Dumbledore and I were standing up on the Astronomy tower at Hogwarts. Draco found us. Dumbledore immobilized me whilst I was hidden under my invisibility cloak. Draco disarmed Dumbledore-”

“But he didn't kill him?”

“No. He lowered his wand,” and here Draco scoffed, silently outraged. He had not lowered his wand. Sure, he might have been crying a bit at that point, because he never expected to be able to disarm Dumbledore, but he knew there would be no going back. He had not lowered his wand because he'd been waiting for Dumbledore to kill him.

Fuck Potter and what he thought he saw. 

“It was Severus Snape who came to perform the killing curse,” Potter continued.

“Harry, I understand that during the Battle for Hogwarts Severus Snape relinquished a memory to you in the final seconds of his life. The memory concerned the murder of Albus Dumbledore. Can you share that with us?”

“I can. Via pensive I saw Albus Dumbledore prearrange his own death with Severus Snape. Malfoy was never meant to perform the curse himself, but it was crucial that he be seen making an effort to ensure that Voldemort would spare his life afterward.”

Draco felt the breath stick in his lungs. Snape? No. The Dark Lord had trusted him completely, never failed to mention it out loud in fact, to the point where it had many of the other Death Eaters rolling their eyes. 

“So by your own words might we conclude that Albus Dumbledore was never murdered, that his death was instead an assisted suicide, and therefore Draco Malfoy cannot be charged as an accomplice to a murder that was never committed?”

“That is correct.”

All around there was shock and indignation. Some members of the Wizenagamot had even risen from their seats to shout objections. Draco was of a similar mind. The world seemed to be crumbling around him. Everything he thought he knew... everything he had done...

He had been just another pawn on the chess board. And Snape. Snape had been lying to him all along. He had lied to everyone. How ironic that in the end Draco had believed that Snape was the only one whose motivations he thought he'd understood. 

Granger's voice rose above the uproar. 

“I have more to present, Minister, if the Wizenagamot would hear it,” she called. Shacklebolt regained control of his courtroom shortly afterword. 

“We will hear it,” he announced.

“Mr. Potter. Can you present your wand to the court?” Granger asked. Slowly, with eyes still dull from the Veritaserum, Potter drew out two wands. One of them Draco recognized immediately as his own.

“Why do you have two wands, Mr. Potter?”

“My own wand was snapped in half before the Battle for Hogwarts. I was...given... the hawthorn wand,” Potter answered. Draco did hear the slight hitch in his voice at the word 'given.' Draco had not willingly given his wand away that day in the manor... had he? There had been a struggle, but he supposed he could have fought harder, he could have hexed Potter. He'd had the chance, hadn't he?

“Given by whom?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“When did this occur?”

“When I was imprisoned at the Malfoys' manor.”

“And you were able to escape shortly afterward?”

“Yes.”

Brilliant, the way Granger had worded it, making it seem as though Draco himself had set Potter free when it had been that traitorous house-elf all along.

“You continued to use this wand even during the Battle for Hogwarts, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“So the wand that vanquished Lord Voldemort belongs rightfully to Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Potter confirmed. The Wizenagamot were muttering amongst themselves again. Their eyes were turned to Draco now, studying him as if he'd suddenly been thrust into a new light. 

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. I have no further questions,” Granger finished. 

.o.o.o.o.o.

In the main atrium of the ministry, Draco walked briskly alongside his mother, his arm firmly supporting her weak frame while a contingent of Aurors surrounded them, shielding them from the amassed witches and wizards. Cameras flashed in their direction. Quick-Quotes quills were being shoved in their faces despite the best efforts of the Aurors to keep them away. 

“Mr. Malfoy, a word for the Prophet-”

“Mrs. Malfoy, is it true that you saved the life of Harry Potter?”

“Mr. Malfoy, how is it that a convicted Death Eater walks away with only a year's probation as a sentence?”

“Mrs. Malfoy, in light of the recent revelations, do you believe your husband's execution was justified?”

They reached the designated Floo and stepped inside, vanishing instantly into the flames and leaving the chaos of the ministry behind them. It was the inside of the manor that greeted them. Dusty, broken, plundered by ministry officials and Death Eaters alike, but it was home. 

Narcissa walked unsteadily to the chaise lounge and sank into it. Little puffs of dust rose from the cushion, but she did not seem to notice. She was already sobbing into the pillow.

Draco did not even bother to find a chair. He simply fell to his knees near the ashy hearth and leaned heavily against the stone of the fireplace. 

Nothing about this felt right.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

.o.o.o.o.o.

The wizard in charge of Draco's probation was a reedy little man by the name of Leopold Barns. He made his disdain for the Malfoy name quite clear upon their first meeting, and Draco could not help but further antagonize the man, but he understood all the same. Barns bore all the scars of the type of torture used on muggleborns who'd refused to surrender their wands under Voldemort's puppet administration. 

All things considered, he was rather kind, Draco supposed. He knew if he were in the same position as this mudblood then he'd not hesitate to flaunt his power over a lesser being. That was what a Malfoy was, now. A lesser being.

“I'm not sure who's pulling strings for you, Mr. Malfoy, but I've just gotten the forms to send you over to Hogwarts for your wizarding community service. Apparently, the repairs are not yet complete.”

“Mmmm,” Draco hummed maliciously, “I take it they've reopened for students already? Are you certain you want me hanging around all those impressionable children? Aren't you and your ministry worried I might corrupt them with my- what did you call it last time- ah yes, 'pureblood agenda?'”

“You'll be supervised, of course,” Barns said stiffly, “And I've made certain that your request for a temporary wand was denied. I suspect you'll have much manual labor to look forward to.”

“Good man!” Draco acknowledged, “Perhaps you're not so useless at your job after all.”

Barns sighed and picked up his quill, ready to copy Draco's sass into his report.

“We're going to be jolly good friends for a long time, Mr. Malfoy.”

.o.o.o.o.o.

Draco knew something was odd when he'd Floo'd back to the manor and his mother was standing in the parlor, admiring a vase of bright yellow marigolds. In the days since they'd returned to the manor she'd not left her bedroom much. It had been Draco knocking on her doors to bring her meals, meals that he himself had thrown together. The manor's house-elves had been seized by the ministry, along with many other, far more valuable pieces of furniture. 

She would smile kindly at him, eyes red and swollen from her tears, and set the platter of horribly made food aside. He couldn't blame her. Even he couldn't stomach his own creations. 

Today she stood staring at the yellow flowers, which by the way did nothing for the room, all whites and greys, and she held a letter close to her chest. Draco approached from behind.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Narcissa answered, clutching the letter tighter, “Just an old acquaintance sending his condolences at your father's passing.”

Draco snorted, eyeing the flowers skeptically, and wondering about the sort of men that might attempt to prey upon his gorgeous, and very conveniently recently widowed and disgraced, mother. Yet, he held his tongue. For some reason, she was no longer crying.

And he wished for it to stay like that. 

He caught her a few days later sitting in front of her vanity, applying make-up for the first time since before the end of the war. 

“What is going on?” Draco asked curiously.

“Put on a set of nice robes, if you have any left. We are going to the opera.”

“They'll never let us in.” Draco replied, exasperated.

“They most certainly will,” Narcissa said huffily while she powdered her nose, “I shall be arriving with my sister.”

“Your sister,” Draco repeated, dumbfounded for a moment. Aunt Bellatrix was, fortunately, lying six feet under. 

“You remember your Auntie Dromeda, don't you?”

“Oh... that one. I thought I was never to speak her name again,” he drawled. His mother glared at him.

“Times have changed, Draco. If we don't learn to consort with the muggleborns and the blood-traitors then we will never survive in this new era,” she scowled, throwing down her makeup, and immediately she became an image of sadness.

“Lucius ought to have let us die with him. We are the ones suffering now, not him,” she gave a bitter laugh, “And he probably died thinking himself some great hero.”

“Don't talk like that, mother,” Draco whispered, bringing his hands up to rest them on her shoulders. It hurt to know just how much she was suffering, just how much she wasn't meant for this new world. She was all he had left, and he could not bear to lose her. Was that selfish of him? Perhaps they ought to all just join Lucius in death. Who would miss them?

“I'll get dressed,” Draco said to his mother, giving her a weak smile before kissing her lightly on the top of her head.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Draco had never set eyes on his Aunt Andromeda before. All he knew of her was some pictures he'd seen of her as a young girl. She'd run off with the muggleborn before Draco had even been conceived. When he finally was able to see her, standing on cobblestone of the theater district of Diagon, he was taken aback by how much she resembled Bellatrix. Hopefully she proved a tad more sane, or this was to be a dreadful evening indeed. 

“Dromeda,” his mother greeted her sister with a plastic smile, her voice as warm as she could make it.

“Sissy,” Andromeda replied, returning a hesitant smile of her own, and looking rather like she was regretting the night already. She turned to Draco. “And you must be Draco. What a fine, young man you've grown into. You look so much like your mother.”

This tension was already unbearable. Something needed to be done about it.

“Auntie Dromeda,” Draco effected with his most disarming smile. He went to her, took her hand and brushed his lips against the back of her glove. “I'm glad to have finally met you. Mother speaks of you most fondly when recalling her childhood.”

“She does?” the other woman said, blinking back her surprise.

“Oh yes, and I would be delighted to hear more of my mother's scandalous past. Is it true you once caught her snogging Amos Diggory in the charms corridor at Hogwarts?” Draco continued. To his immense relief, Andromeda broke out laughing. Narcissa eyed her son, annoyed. In truth, he had heard that particular rumor from his father, on a night that Lucius had been rather drunk and angry with his wife. 

“Oh yes, I do remember that!” Andromeda sighed, as if reliving the memory. She winked at Draco. “Cissy, Bella, and I got into all sorts of trouble at school.”

“Yes, I suppose we couldn't be the good little Black daughters at all times,” Narcissa conceded with a more relaxed smile.

For a moment the conversation ran dry again, and this time Draco was at a loss.

“Cissy,” Andromeda began, but then the next words caught in her throat. Narcissa's face crumpled suddenly and she flung herself into her sister's arms, shoulders hitching with her sobs. Andromeda embraced her and her own eyes sparkled with tears. 

“It's been.... so long,” Narcissa choked.

“I know.”

Draco kept a respectable distance while the tearful reunion occurred. The square was crowded with people, many of whom were preparing to enter the Silver Wand Theater themselves. The two, sobbing sisters had become something to gawk at. 

“Mrs. Tonks, I've the tickets,” said a very familiar voice. 

Potter was standing behind Andromeda, looking quite respectable for once in dress robes nearly as fine as those he'd worn for the Yule Ball in fourth year, and staring bewildered at the scene before him. 

“Oh, yes, Harry. Thank you for going to fetch them,” Andromeda said as she broke apart from her sister and hastily dried her eyes. Narcissa pulled the netting of her hat over her face to hide her smeared make-up. “My husband has opted to stay home with our grandson tonight. I asked Harry to come along instead,” Andromeda explained, “He's never been to the wizarding opera. I am educating him in the finer things.”

As if enough people hadn't already been staring at the sobfest, now they had grown hushed with the appearance of Harry Potter in their midst. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, it's good to see you well,” Potter said, shocking them all. He then did as Draco had, taking his mother's petite, gloved hand and bowing over it. Afterwords he extended a hand to Draco. 

Draco stared at it, rather disgusted, until his mother nudged him. He grasped the offered hand in a vice-like grip. Potter returned it in kind, but something strange happened. There was a spark of... something. Potter felt it too, and it caused their hands to remain linked for a fraction longer than need be.

“Potter,” Draco said stiffly when he came to his senses.

By the time he had let go, Draco was already dwelling upon the reasons Potter was here. Andromeda had taken Potter on purpose. Of course she wouldn't bring her mudblood husband with her while she and her sister attempted to mend their relationship. But Draco realized that Potter had just afforded them another opportunity as well. He glanced down at the tickets the other man was holding.

“You won't be needing those. We've a private box in this establishment,” Draco said, turning his nose up. “Come, we'll miss the opening.” They walked into the theater, Narcissa and Draco in front, and were greeted immediately by the Silver Wand's owner, who had apparently been waiting for them just inside the doors.

“Evening Fawley,” said Draco, attempting to sound like his father, “I trust you saved our box for us.”

“You are leaving, Malfoy.”

“No, we most certainly just arrived.” 

“Death Eaters are not welcome in my theater. If you do not remove yourselves then I shall call my security.”

“Oh dear, what shall I tell my guests, then?” Draco said, lips curling into a wicked smile as he gestured back to Andromeda and Potter. Potter did not look pleased to be part of this new ploy, but he stepped forward nonetheless, his expression grim.

“Is there a problem?” Potter asked. It only took a moment for Bernard Fawley's eyes to find the scar. “I understand that the Malfoys have been among your chief patrons since this theater first opened.”

“Harry Potter! It is an honor-”

“You may not wish to smear your company's reputation by allowing a few exonerated Death Eaters entrance," Potter cut across the other man harshly, "but if I were you, I might be more concerned about what the Prophet would say if you refused to admit me as well.”

Fawley looked as though he'd just been slapped in the face. It took him a moment to compose himself before he flagged down an usher to personally escort them to the box. Draco fell into step alongside Potter.

“So, you've learned to play.”

“I've always known,” Potter bit out, “Just never wanted to, is all.” He turned his green gaze on Draco, and the fairer man felt his breath hitch because... well... there was something dangerous behind those eyes. “Do not ever use me like that again, Malfoy, or I'll make sure you regret it.”

“Of course,” Draco said demurely, holding the curtain open for Potter to enter the box before him. There were four seats in the box, two in front and two in the back. Whenever Draco had attended with his parents, they would take the two in the rear while Draco would lounge in the two front ones alone. 

This time, Narcissa and Andromeda sat in the two front ones, leaving Potter and Draco to, awkwardly, take the two in the back. The lights overhead were extinguished by a flick of a wand and the pit orchestra began a somber melody.

“I saw the note you sent my mother,” Draco said quietly where there was sufficient noise to drown out his voice from any ears but the man seated next to him. “And the flowers," his mouth took a moment to form the next words, as he never thought he'd be saying them to the likes of Harry Potter, "Thank you.”

“They weren't for you,” Potter replied, a bit perplexed. Draco scowled at his obtuseness. 

“She stopped crying. I suppose she'd lost hope that anyone cared, and you showed her otherwise. I want to know why.”

“Why, what?”

“Why you care. Why you intervened in our trial.”

“Your mother saved my life.”

“But I didn't, at least not on purpose. Why even pretend I gave you that wand in the first place? And that bit with Dumbledore, you know I was trying to kill him, and you know I was the one who let those Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

“It's almost like you don't want a second chance,” Potter observed, ironically. 

“Arrogance. Maybe there was nothing wrong with my first chance. Maybe mother and I don't want to live in your new world, Potter. Did you ever think of that?” Draco hissed. Potter considered for a moment.

“No, I didn't think of that. I don't really think I have to think about it. Things are the way they are. No one is making you stay in my new world.”

The opera droned on in the background, two lovers saying farewell before one was forced to leave for some obscure war. Of course, it was all in Italian. Potter probably couldn't understand a word. 

“There are so many potions that can do the job quick and easy,” Potter continued, quietly. “But I personally think the killing curse does it best. I would know. It's instant... and painless.”

For a moment Draco sat very still, wondering if he'd heard the other man correctly, and then wondering if he'd interpreted correctly. What would Potter know of suicidal thoughts? Dumbledore's precious golden boy all his life. Always with a purpose, always surrounded by friends.

Perhaps it wasn't so simple...

“I didn't realize the Savior thought about such things in his spare time,” Draco responded nastily. Potter closed his eyes and leaned back a fraction in his seat, as if preparing to take a nap until intermission.

“Every single day, Malfoy.”

.o.o.o.o.o.

The next day marked the start of Draco's community service at Hogwarts. Three days every week until sometime in the spring. He would Floo into the Three Broomsticks, where his chaperon would be waiting to take him up to the castle. 

He was just about to leave the manor when he saw his mother sitting at the breakfast table, a plate of hot food in front of her. The fine china and silverware had been taken out, and the entire room was spotless and gleaming like it had been only before the Dark Lord had planted his ass in that chair and made himself at home. Even the drapes had been drawn, letting in the September sunlight. 

“Mother,” Draco began, confused. 

“I do believe young Harry might have overheard my comment to Dromeda about our need for a house-elf,” Narcissa remarked quietly, putting the fork to her painted lips again with an expression of pure bliss. 

An old, decrepit thing emerged from the kitchen that Draco immediately recognized as the Blacks' old house elf. It set down a glass of champagne for Narcissa and bowed to Draco.

“Kreacher is honored to be serving a family as old and noble as the Malfoys. Master Harry says I am to be serving you for as long as you need, and Kreacher must say that he is happy to be out of a house overrun with filthy mudbloods and blood-traitors.”

“Delightful, isn't he?” Narcissa sighed, “I always envied my Auntie Walburga for her house-elf. I don't understand why ours never could be trained like this. Perhaps Lucius should have been more heavy-handed with them.”

“I'll be at Hogwarts today, mother. I expect I'll be back late.”

“Of course, darling,” she said airily, and Draco was relieved to know that she at least would not be lonely while he was away. He walked over to the fireplace and stepped inside. 

When he emerged on the side of the Three Broomsticks he was a bit surprised to find Potter standing as if he was expecting him. Draco scoured the room, hoping to see someone else, but the Three Broomsticks was dead at this early hour, probably not even open for business yet.

“It won't always be me,” Potter said after noticing Draco's expression, clearly taking some offense. “I'll be sure they send Filch next time, if you prefer. I only wanted to ask if Kreacher is behaving himself thus far.”

“To be blunt, Potter, I do wonder how that elf ever behaved for you.”

“We came to an understanding, eventually,” Potter answered, not so amused. 

“That aside, I must say that I didn't realize you were at Hogwarts yourself this year,” Draco said, brushing off his robes and finally stepping out of the hearth. “Remedial potions?” he guessed, raising a brow. The ministry had acknowledged that the previous Hogwarts year had done nothing to advance the education of the students, however, the ministry had offered its own set of accelerated courses over the summer for those unwilling to return to Hogwarts. 

It hadn't much mattered for the seventh years. As Draco heard it, most of them had already taken jobs in the ministry, which was willing to overlook the fact that their new hires remained ungraduated when they were so desperate for people. 

“I work there, actually,” Potter replied flatly, “I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“What even qualifies you for that job?” Draco sneered. “You're barely eighteen, with little experience, no NEWTS and no published research. Father was right about the falling standards at this school. McGonagall must have gone off her rocker when she hired you.” He thought he remembered that Potter once had ambitions to become an Auror. He wondered what had changed his mind.

“I defeated Voldemort, didn't I?”

“With Expeliarmus, from what I hear...” Draco retorted disdainfully, “If only the Dark Lord had known that it was one of three spells that you could be arsed to remember.” Potter didn't rise to the taunt, Instead the corners of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. 

“Doesn't sound so glorious when you put it that way, does it? You ought to pen an article and sell it to the Prophet. Give them a new perspective on the whole thing.”

Draco blinked, suddenly thrown off his rhythm. He'd been prepping for a verbal spar. 

“In time, Potter.”

Outside the Three Broomsticks, Potter had a set of brooms waiting for them.

“You do remember how to fly, I hope,” the scarhead asked. Malfoy snatched the offered broom from him. It was black and sleek and the grip in his hand was familiar. It was a Nimbus 2001. Perhaps one of the same his father had bought for the Slytherin quidditch team several years ago. 

He and Potter flew out of the town and over the glassy lake. The castle loomed in the distance. The wind whipping across Draco's face was exhilarating and he found he could not resist a grin. He imagined that he was young again, on the quidditch field, hunting the snitch. Perhaps his grin was infectious, because when he glanced to Potter he saw his expression mirrored. 

A bird flew across their line of sight and suddenly Potter spiraled into an elegant dive. Instinct commanded that Draco do the same. Eventually the bird was forgotten and they were racing. Together. Their thighs bumped against one another as they rode the wind currents.

And then they reached the grounds and it was all over. All forgotten. Potter held out his hand for Draco's broom. Filch was shuffling up to them, bones creaking, Mrs. Norris in his wake. Hogwarts was all around him and it was like he'd gone back in time... like nothing had changed. 

Draco was still panting from the exertion. He imagined his hair was wild from the wind, and he was very glad his robes hid his erection. He hadn't felt this good in... he couldn't even remember the the last time. 

“Well, well, well,” began Filch, eyeing Draco with glee, except it was the sort of glee he reserved for an upcoming detention he was about to oversee. “Looks like I finally got myself an assistant.”

Draco realized that he was about to receive the detention of his life.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Draco really couldn't do much without a wand. On paper, it said he'd been sent to help with the castle's renovations, but in truth the tasks he was capable of fell more into a 'general housekeeping' category.

He sat scrubbing puke off the floor of the History of Magic classroom one day, a few weeks into his service, with nothing but a rag and a bucket. 

“Put your back into it,” said Filch as he sat at a desk with his feet propped up, lazily filing one of his over-long finger nails. A few minutes later he stood. “Alright, next class is coming in. Pack it up.”

He and Filch waded through the halls of students. They tended to part around Draco like he had the plague, even moreso today as he had his sleeves rolled up to display a very distinctive mark on his left arm. 

He recognized some of the students occasionally. They'd been in the years beneath him, but he did not really know any of them, even those from his own house. And they pretended not to know him. They were too frightened to approach. He suspected that they weren't allowed to speak to him anyway.

It was McGonagall who first gave him a wand. 

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, there you are,” she said, looking harried as always, “I need you to fix the wall outside the courtyard, yes the one that we keep sealing temporarily. The nights are getting colder and we really must keep out that draft. We haven't the stone for it, therefore it will take quite a bit of transfiguration.”

“I don't have a wand, Headmistress,” he reminded her, a little less respectfully than he should have. She placed her own wand in his hand, not noticing his attitude in her rush.

“There you are. Have it on my desk by the end of the day. 'Whiskers' will get you past the gargoyle. Now off you go.” Draco handed the bucket of puke water to a scowling Filch and went his own way, staring at the wand in his fingers. She had entrusted it to him. Just like that. No second thoughts. 

Had she forgotten what he was? What he'd done?

Profressor Sprout was next, only a week later. 

“Morning, Mr. Malfoy. I understand you are available to assist the staff with projects for the time being. Could you winterize greenhouses eight, nine and ten for me? You'll need to vanish the water from the piping.”

“I haven't a wand, professor,” Draco explained sullenly. 

“Well you'd best take mine then,” she said with a nod, using her dirt-covered fingers to extract her short, fat wand from her grimy robes. “I won't be needing it until the afternoon classes.”

Draco was starting to see that the Hogwarts staff, who'd somehow remained almost entirely intact after the war, saw him first and foremost as the student he once was, not the Death Eater he'd become. How extraordinarily naive of them. His probation wizard would have a fit if he knew. 

Draco tucked away the borrowed wand and headed for the greenhouses, feeling just a bit lighter than he had before.

.o.o.o.o.o.

It was an unseasonably warm October day, and Draco was repairing the thatching on the roof of Hagrid's hut when he realized that Hagrid no longer lived there. In fact, he couldn't remember seeing the mangey giant around the castle at all. Draco's fingers were aching from all of the times he'd accidentally smashed them with the muggle contraption called a 'hammer'. In his defense, Filch had not provided a very thorough explanation on how to properly use the thing before wobbling away back into the cool interior of the castle.

Evening rolled around and who but Potter comes strutting down to the hut, giving Malfoy a curt nod before walking in as if he owned the hovel. 

The git walked out the back door a few minutes later, completely naked. He filled a rusted, old tub with hot water and slipped in with a sigh, uncaring that he had an audience.

“Do you live here, Potter?” Draco asked, disgust evident in his voice. 

“Yep,” Potter replied, leaning back and sighing.

“What happened to that great oaf, Hagrid?”

“The ministry appointed him their official giant liaison. I suspect he'll be gone for some time.”

Draco realized that from his rooftop vantage he could see everything in Potter's sorry excuse for a bathtub. 

“Why on earth wouldn't you stay in the castle?” Draco continued, because really, he just couldn't understand it. He figured McGonagall would have set up her precious Potter within the castle's most luxurious accommodations. 

“Can't stand to sleep in there. I see so many dead faces in my dreams. Out here it's peaceful,” Potter answered calmly as he lathered up his body. Again, Draco was thrown momentarily by Potter's offhandedly dark comment, just like back in the theater, but he soon became distracted.

He had to wonder how Potter was so toned. Teaching class all day didn't exactly give one a fit figure.

“I'm the referee for all the quidditch matches, if that's what you're wondering.”

Draco scowled and hated himself for the flush that had crept into his face.

“Fuck off, Potter.”

“Then stop staring.”

“Whip out your wand and fix this roof. Then I'll be on my way.”

Potter put his arms over the edge of the washtub and leaned his head onto them so that he could study the man on his roof in a leisurely fashion.

“I like seeing you work with your hands. It's very satisfying, because I know you've never had to do work like this before,” Potter responded. There. That cruelty, that vicious envy that surfaced every-so-often. Draco was starting to see a pattern. There were days where Potter was all humble and saintly, and there were days where he seemed to hate the world and everyone in it.

“You wouldn't believe what I can do with my hands, Potter.” The retort came out of Draco's mouth before he realized the meaning the words would take on. 

“Why don't you show me?” Harry said, green eyes gazing intensely up at him through thick brows. His voice had dropped lower and smoothed into something resembling a purr. “And maybe I'll let you use your hawthorn wand to finish the roof.”

Draco was on the ground a moment later, striding over to Potter, who was looking quite smug. Let it not be said that a Malfoy would not rise to a challenge when it was issued. If he could agree to murder Dumbledore for the Dark Lord, he could bloody well give Potter a good wank in exchange for a wand. And really, it was almost a relief that Draco had not been imagining the 'come hither' eyes Potter had been making towards him since he'd first started at the castle.

Draco plunged his hand into the steaming water and Potter leaned back, giving him full access to the front of his body. Draco's fingers skated over lean abs, and he quite liked the feel of them, so he plunged his other hand into the water as well. He touched Potter where he wanted first. Shoulders, pecks, fingers ghosting over nipples, and then his hands slid lower and lower until they met the hard flesh between Potter's legs. 

The Savior groaned. 

Draco took the erection in his fist like he'd do with his own. He gave it a few, long strokes, squeezing the head as he neared the top. He found his own body responding to the noises escaping from Potter's lips. 

“Yes, Draco...”

Draco squeezed so hard that Potter yelped and jerked away.

“Don't call me by my first name,” Draco hissed, “We aren't friends.”

Potter grabbed his wrist in a bone-crushing grip, and it was then that Draco knew that something was wrong, and not just with Potter. 

Something had ignited within him, something that could have only been magic, for nothing else could leave him with such searing want. The washtub tipped, sending hot water everywhere. Potter was on him shortly after, both of them sprawled on the grass and panting heavily. Potter still had not let go of his wrist, and now he captured the other one and pinned them together. His free hand slipped beneath Draco's robes and explored while his naked manhood thrust slowly against Draco's clothed hip.

“Stop it,” Harry breathed in a voice of barely leashed restraint, “Whatever you're doing, stop it now!” His words were making no sense. Draco was not aware he had done anything at all. “Malfoy!” They struggled against each other for a moment longer before Potter finally drew himself away with teeth gritted. 

“You just used the Imperious curse on me!” Potter accused, still panting from his exertions.

“Are you mad?” Draco stuttered in disbelief, his mind rapidly shaking off whatever sort of trance he'd been under.

“I know what the Imperious curse feels like!”

“I have no fucking wand, Potter! Or did you forget why I was putting my hands on you in the first place!” Draco shouted. His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest and his mind was already running through what might happen if Potter decided to bring such an accusation to the proper authorities. It would ruin him, truth or not, no one would take the word of a Malfoy over the Savior.

“You're insane, Potter,” Draco decided as he picked himself up off the ground, “The Dark Lord must have addled your brain with that last Avada.” It seemed Potter had nothing to say to that. He just sat there in the grass in all his naked glory, holding his head as if it pained him. 

“Fix the rest of your roof yourself,” Draco called over his shoulder as he stalked away.

.o.o.o.o.o.


	3. Chapter 3

“Darling, must you bring all of that into the tea room?” Narcissa chided after she had seated herself upon the sofa across from him. It was morning, and Draco was doing all that he could to distract himself from the previous night's fiasco. He made an incoherent noise without looking up from his documents.

 

“Greyback left blood all over the floor of father's study. It's rather distracting.”

 

His mother voiced no more objections. She sipped her tea and eyed the documents herself.

 

“Is Wilson and Wright no longer handling our finances?” she asked quietly.

 

“Seems they will no longer have us as a client,” Draco replied stiffly. He picked up another letter, “This is from Greengrass Apothecaries. They are pulling out of our arrangement. Borgin and Burkes has done the same. So has Slug and Jiggers . Merlin, no one will even sell our wine anymore.” He set down his quill and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Our Greengots accounts are all overdrawn. We have outstanding dues to nearly all of father's frequent haunts. The ministry has their eyes on the manor, or rather the land, I expect.”

 

Narcissa's lips pursed as the frustration finally hit her.

 

“They cannot. Wizarding law states-”

 

“Come now, mother,” Draco cut her off, already having worked himself into a fury earlier and still bristling with anger. “Do you really think any of those laws will hold much longer? The entire system is being dismantled. They managed to get their greedy hands on the Crabbe and Lestrange properties. Seems we are next in line.” _The Goyle residence too,_ Draco reminded himself. Gregory had been too far down the chain of command to receive an Azkaban sentence. But he was in St. Mungo's now, with what Draco knew to be a mild case of spell damage. He'd never left the ward. It was only a matter of time before they branded him as clinically insane and allowed the ministry access to seize all that his family had ever owned.

 

“There must be a way,” Narcissa hissed.

 

“We could attempt to have the manor reclassified as a historical site, but that would force us to reveal things, both family secrets and more recent... happenings that we are better off taking to our graves,” Draco said, dejected. Narcissa's face was pinched in silent outrage. She set her tea down, no longer interested.

 

“I will enlist Andromeda's aid in finding us a solicitor that will keep the ministry bogged down in legal proceedings for decades.”

 

“And where would we get the money for that, mother?” he asked tiredly. He was sick of having to now worry about this extra variable. It certainly made life so much harder... as if it wasn't hard enough these days.

 

At that moment, the wards began to chime.

 

“Is someone at the door?” his mother asked incredulously. Draco, too, was curious. No one felt the need to walk up the long drive to the door of the manor these days. Charms repelled any muggle that might feel the need to do so, and everyone else tended to firecall.

 

They permitted Kreacher to answer the door and show the guest into the tea room. It was Potter. He was holding a bouquet of roses and looking quite somber.

 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy,” he began pleasantly. “So sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was wondering if I might have a private word with your son.”

 

“Of course,” Narcissa said, looking mostly intrigued now. She waved them on and Draco led Potter into the adjacent room. Potter fixed him under that green stare.

 

“I wanted to apologize for what I accused you of yesterday. It was wrong of me. I should never have even taunted you in the first place. In the future, I shall keep things professional between us,” Potter began in a hushed voice as soon as they were alone. Draco knitted his brows. So Potter was to blame himself for yesterday after all...

 

“Honestly, Potter. You aren't so bad on the eyes, but I would not dare risk the Imperious curse while on probation, even if it might get me into the _Savior's_ pants _,_ ” Draco said truthfully. Potter seemed to take comfort in those words. He held out the flowers.

 

“They're more for your mother than you,” he explained, “Am I forgiven?”

 

“You are assuming I can afford to hold a grudge against you,” Draco replied haughtily as he reached out to take the flowers. He supposed he might find a place for them somewhere in the west wing. His fingers brushed Harry's. That spark of magic hit him all over again and before he knew what he was doing, his fingers had traveled up Potters arm to grip his bicep. The flowers tumbled to the floor and Potter's arms were suddenly around him. They stood together, lips only inches apart, breathing heavily.

 

This time it was Draco who came to his senses first, tearing himself away.

 

“I think you'd better leave,” he told Potter.

 

“I... think you're right,” the other man panted. He fled from the room after a small moment of hesitation. Draco stared down at his hand accusingly and flexed his fingers. Yes, there was no doubt that there was something abnormal going on.

 

Residual magic, perhaps?

 

“Oh darling,” Narcissa cooed when Draco emerged back into the other room, holding the crushed flowers, “I had no idea.” Draco scowled, tossing the bouquet onto the table.

 

“You have the wrong idea.”

 

“All this time, your father and I attempted to match you with the Greengrass girl. Perhaps we should have been considering a boy instead. Harry Potter would be a fine match indeed. You could do much worse. Some even say the Potters ought to have been part of the Sacred Twenty-eight, you know.”

 

“Then you should marry him yourself,” Draco spat, “The flowers were for you, by the way.”

 

“How thoughtful!”

 

.o.o.o.o.

 

Summer refused to give way to fall, tormenting Draco with a heat he swore he felt both inside and out. For the following few weeks he saw little of Potter around the castle, and he rather wished it to stay that way.

 

The _thing_ that was between them, the magic, the emotions, whatever it was it certainly wasn't normal. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister was at play.

 

Malfoy found himself outside Slughorn's classroom one afternoon after his work on the castle had been completed. He waited patiently until the students had all filed out and approached the elder man before he could make the escape he so desperately desired.

 

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy. I'm afraid I've no need of you this evening. The slugs have already been sorted into jars for the morning classes.”

 

“Professor,” Draco said, ignoring the previous comment, “Can I speak to you for a moment about something rather private?” Slughorn's reluctance was showing quite clearly on his face. Obviously, someone bearing the Malfoy name was no longer someone worth expending much wisdom on.

 

“Yes, yes of course, Draven. Come, follow me to my office.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

Draco seated himself in a chair in Slughorns rather too cozy office, glancing around briefly at all of the pictures and newspaper clippings of famous ex-students. He wondered if there would be a shrine somewhere devoted to Potter, but if there was, it must have required a place more holy.

 

“Professor,” Draco, began, deciding to get it over with at once, “I need to know if I've somehow taken a love potion. There is someone that I... well it is quite embarrassing, but I cannot control myself while around this particular person. Could it be the work of a potion?”

 

Slughorn thought for a moment before he started speaking in the slow voice that professor of academia uses for the younger and less deluded.

 

“If one is under the influence of a love potion, he does not wonder whether he under the influence, he simply accepts it.”

 

“Could it have been made wrong?” Draco persisted, because he wasn't an idiot. He knew the fundamentals of brewing such potions.

 

“The very nature of the amorous type potion makes it either work or not work. There is no such thing as being only half in love, you see. Love potions are all or nothing, I'm afraid.”

 

Malfoy knew his disappointment must have showed on his face. He had been certain that Slughorn would have an answer for him. The old professor surprised him by putting a hand on his shoulder, though he looked as though it pained him to do so.

 

“You are young, my boy. It is natural that you should have certain... urges, I daresay,” It seemed as thought the topic made Slughorn rather uncomfortable, but he was willing to brave it for the sake easing a former student's anxiety. “Why, when I was your age they needed a garden hose and a stinging hex to keep me off the ladies. I imagine that it is much the same for you. Perhaps you ought to explore your urges instead of repressing them.”

 

“I...thank you, professor,” Draco said through his teeth, voice dripping with murderous politeness. He stood up to leave. The old man had been no help. No help at all.

 

.o.o.o.o.

 

Potter became the third Hogwarts professor to lend him a wand. It wasn't until Halloween that Draco conversed with Potter again, and he suspected it was that awkwardness at the manor that had caused them both to avoid one another. It seemed it was not to last, however. Potter met him at the Floo in the Three Broomsticks, just as he had that first day.

 

“Filch has taken ill. I suspect he'll be off this week.”

 

“Pity,” Draco said with no real feeling. Potter had come by way of broomstick this time as well and Draco was rather relieved he would not have to suffer a jostling carriage ride inhaling Filch's stench.

 

They remained a respectable distance apart, but today their flight was leisurely, and before they reached the lake they had drifted close enough to speak.

 

“Malfoy, can you produce a Patronus?”

 

The question came out of the blue, and Draco was suddenly forced to remember the Dark Lord's horrid occupation of his home, and the frightful creatures that had followed in his wake.

 

“Someone had to keep the dementors off the manor grounds. They make the flowers wilt, did you know that, Potter? Mother wouldn't have it.” He recalled asking Bellatrix to teach him the spell- she'd always been so willing to teach him things- but he decided that he was better off teaching himself when he'd learned that his Aunt's happiest memory was torturing the Longbottoms into insanity. He found he couldn't quite relate.

 

“Can you assist me with my seventh year class this evening?”

 

“Why on earth would you need me? I thought you were famous for your Patronus, well, that and your scar, of course,” Draco scoffed. Potter looked down at his blurry reflection in the lake. His hands tightened their grip on his broom.

 

“I can't do it anymore,” he admitted. Draco blinked.

 

“Come again?”

 

“I can't do the Patronus Charm anymore. It doesn't work. Nothing happens when I try.”

 

“You want me to teach your class for you?” Draco asked in disbelief. He decided not to delve into the matter of Potter's Patronus. It would be rather like asking a man why he could no longer get it up.

 

“Of course not. I just want someone there to give a demonstration, is all.”

 

“Very well, then, but I'll be needing my wand.”

 

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

That evening Draco sat at Harry's desk in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom whilst Potter lectured at the front.

 

His own wand was in his hands again at last, and by Merlin, it felt so good beneath his fingers. It distracted him sufficiently so that he was numb to the stares he was receiving. Potter's classroom was quite the mess, with books shoved in every corner, strange objects and instruments sprawled haphazardly on tables, and the center of the room had been turned into a dueling stage, with a long aisle and cushions off to either side.

 

The first row of students was made up entirely of witches, all of whom seemed rather smitten with the _Savior_. It was strange to remember that these students were only a year younger than Harry and himself. They might even believe that they stood a chance at seducing the great Harry Potter.

 

He was taken though, wasn't he? Surely he was still with the Weasley girl. Odd that he hadn't heard much about the couple in the papers, and she had not come back to Hogwarts with the rest of her year. Draco had rather expected their romantic escapades to grace the front of the Prophet on a regular basis.

 

“Right, who can tell me the two most important uses for the Patronus Charm? Yes, Wendy?” The girl in the Griffindor scarf stood from her chair, blushing wildly.

 

“It is used to repel dark creatures, and also it can be used as a means of communication.”

 

“Correct,” Harry nodded while the girl retook her seat. “And you will all have to produce a fully corporeal Patronus by the end of the year if you are expecting a NEWT in this subject.” Potter then gestured to a rattling chest behind him. “ _Expecto Patronum_ is most useful in repelling dementors, but since I cannot bring an actual dementor onto the Hogwarts grounds, this boggart will have to do.” Harry gave a sheepish smile at this point. “I'm sure you and the rest of the wizarding world knows by now the embarrassing truth that dementors are what frighten me more than anything. Therefore, I will release the boggart and hold its attention. I have with me here today, Mr. Malfoy, who will demonstrate the Patronus Charm. Malfoy has studied a great deal of the dark arts-”

 

“Oh I reckon he did a bit more than study them,” a smarmy voice came from the back.

 

“Five points from Ravenclaw, Shepard,” Potter called back without hesitation. “I might remind you that Malfoy has been given a wand for this demonstration, and I assure you I'll have no sympathy if you now find yourself on the wrong end of it. Anyone else have anything to say?” The class was silent once more.

 

_Channeling a bit of Severus Snape there, aren't you Potter?_ Draco thought to himself. He had to grudgingly admit that Potter wasn't half bad at this teaching business. Not nearly as graceless as Draco had expected.

 

“Ok, right,” Potter turned to Draco, finally, “Malfoy, if you would.” Potter faced the trunk and Malfoy took up a position just behind him, already wondering what it would be like to hex Potter while his back was turned. It would certainly be satisfying. The latches on the trunk snapped open and immediately, a cloaked, skeletal form launched itself from the depths. It did a passable impression of a dementor, Draco mused, but it failed to induce that depressive state of mind, or chill the room, or create a vacuum where positive thoughts could not be maintained.

 

Draco sifted for a moment through his memories. He knew he could not delay too long in choosing one, for the charm worked best when the thought was simple. Analyze too long and the rational part of your mind could step in and convince you that an unhappy memory was actually a happy one.

 

So, he thought of him and Potter, on their broomsticks, racing over the reflective surface of the Black Lake.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Draco said, for the benefit of the watching students. Normally he cast it non-verbally. A little, silver ferret burst from his wand and targeted the boggart. It chased the creature almost back into its chest before Draco directed the little ferret to take a playful lap around the room and disappear.

 

“Well done,” Potter acknowledged, his attention still on the boggart, “Line up, class, and start thinking of your happiest memory.”

 

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

He and Potter sat in the classroom long after the last class was dismissed and the outside light had grown dim. Potter was grading something, but his quill had not moved in some time.

 

“A ferret,” he said, breaking the silence.

 

“Go on and laugh, Potter,” Draco invited, even though the other man had done no such thing, “Father's was a peacock. Had the Dark Lord ordered him to cast it ever, I'm certain he would have died of shame.”

 

Potter chuckled. Actually chuckled. For a moment, Draco couldn't figure out what was so strange about that. Then, he realized that Potter was perhaps the only other person he might make light of such dark things with. Anyone else that might see the humor in it was dead. No one else would understand. How odd.

 

Draco had been ashamed too, at first, of the lowly creature that supposedly represented his soul, but over those dark months in the manor he'd come to accept the little silver ferret after it had protected him time and time again without fail. He would even cast it by his bedside some nights, pretending that it had the power to ward away the Dark Lord himself.

 

“They say that only the pure of heart can cast the Patronus Charm. I used to think I knew what that meant...” Potter said as he spared a look at his holly wand sitting on the edge of his desk, “...but now I'm not so certain.”

 

“Must you be so disgustingly morose, all the time Potter? Perhaps what you need is a bit of cheering up. It's All Hallow's Eve, after all,” Draco said, standing and stretching. He did not miss the other man's eyes following him. “You ought to go to Celia Macmillan's annual masquerade tonight. I'm sure Hogwarts can spare you for an evening.”

 

“How did you know I was invited to that?”

 

“Anyone who's anyone gets invited to that damned masquerade,” Draco scowled.

 

“You weren't invited,” Potter guessed bluntly. Then, he blushed. “Were you expecting to come along as my... my date?”

 

“Call it my reward for getting you out of this recluse of a castle,” Draco replied, surprised that Potter had put it all together so quickly. “You only need to get me through the door, after that we would, naturally, go our separate ways,” he continued, walking across the room until he stood behind the other man's chair. He leaned in so that he was speaking over Potter's shoulder. “It should be your kind of party, I think. You'll be in a mask, first off, and the Macmillans put a special charm on their mansion for the night, one that makes it impossible to speak anyone's real name. Should someone recognize you, they won't be able to tell anyone else... at least until the next morning.” Draco leaned in closer now. “Just think, a night of anonymous, drunken revelry.”

 

“I'll go,” Potter said. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and beneath the desk he crossed his legs.

 

“Excellent. Wear those robes you wore to the opera. I won't have you embarrassing me in anything less,” Draco drawled as he made for the door.

 

“Malfoy,” Potter called, causing him to stop in his tracks. “My wand,” he continued. Draco glanced around to see him sitting there smugly with his palm outstretched. Draco hissed a profanity beneath his breath and stalked back over.

 

“It's not _yours._ ” he growled.

 

“It is, until I tell it that it's not. I think I'll wait until you can legally carry a wand, but only if you're good.”

 

Draco dragged the wand out of his robes and cast a nonverbal stunner. Potter fell from his chair and onto the floor.

 

“One for the road, then.” Draco said cheerily. He slapped the wand back onto the desk.

 


	4. Chapter 4

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

“I don't approve of your mask,” Harry made it known as soon as they met outside their designated apparation spot. In the distance loomed the Macmillan manor, nearly as grand as Draco's own home, but sat upon much less acreage, and without the surrounding forest.

 

Draco knew exactly why Potter did not approve of his mask. It was part of his Death Eater mask, though Draco had made a parody of it by turning it green. He'd framed it with garish, blue and green peacock feathers. Not so many people would recognize it for what it was, as not so many people came face to face with Death Eaters and lived to tell about their masks.

 

And the people who _would_ recognize it for what it was... well, those were the people that Draco meant to leave an impression upon.

 

“It's a sight more interesting than yours, at least. Honestly, Potter, owl feathers?” Draco drawled, gesturing to Potter's dull brown mask. He'd noticed that the other man had also applied several glamours. His skin was darker, his scar was hidden, and his hair was lighter and lying flat. Also, that scruff certainly couldn't have grown so long in only a matter of hours. Surely, no one would even recognize him.

 

“I thought the point was to be inconspicuous!” the _Savior_ argued.

 

“Maybe for you. I _want_ them to know who is under my mask. I want the wizarding world to see that even in disgrace, the name Malfoy is not to be trod upon.”

 

“Whatever,” Potter growled, clearly annoyed, “Let's just go in so that I can be away from you as soon as possible.” He turned onto the long driveway that would take them up to the mansion. Draco fell into step beside him. The hedges lining the cobblestone road were immaculately trimmed, and little, blue fairy lights hovered above them, giving the place a haunted feel, surely on purpose.

 

Potter handed his gilded invitation to the wizard at the door, who waved his wand over it briefly to check it for fraud.

 

“Welcome, Mr. Owl, Mr. Peacock.”

 

Upon entrance to the ballroom, both took pause. Potter because... well... the only way he would know class was if it were to hit him in the face like so, and Draco because he was like a fish reintroduced to water. These were his people, his own _kind._

 

Potter and his awkwardness faded into the background as Draco left him behind to meld into the crowd. It didn't take long for people to notice him. Many stopped. Many stared. Clusters of party-goers even parted for him as he walked on through. There came whispers in his wake, but they were inconsequential. He found the two he'd meant to find easily enough. They'd stood themselves apart enough from the main crowd, so as not to be presumptuous, but they stood close enough to not be outcasts.

 

“Mr. Raven, Ms. Canary,” Draco said when he'd placed himself before them. They exchanged a glance with one another, as if deciding whether speaking to him was worth the risk. Then, the darker skinned man stepped forward.

 

“I must say I am surprised to see you here,” Blaise said with all his usual smoothness, “Which unfortunate girl did you hoodwink, then?” He began to scan the room, as if he might take a guess from those he could see.

 

“Shame on you, Mr. Raven. Perhaps I received an invitation of my very own,” Draco replied in mock hurt.

 

“You are bold, Mr. Peacock,” Pansy said with a low chuckle and a smirk, “I suppose, if you managed to garner an invite to this party, then you must be worth speaking to, after all. I'm afraid Mr. Raven and I are among those who must take care who they associate with nowadays. I'm sure you understand our hesitation.”

 

“I would expect nothing less,” Draco sincered, feeling the pride in his voice. They were true friends, friends he had to fight tooth and nail to remain worthy of. People like Potter might disagree, but then one only had to look at the leeches he liked to call 'friends'...

 

“How have you been?” Pansy asked, stepping closer and taking his hand, “Your father...”

 

“Dead and gone. Good riddance, wouldn't you agree? He really was the wrong sort,” Draco scoffed with all the vehemence he could muster for the sake of any eavesdroppers. Pansy smiled a sad smile and then, unexpectedly, pulled him into an embrace.

 

“I just wish... we all could be here, you know? Like when we were young and we'd all come with our parents. Now we are all fractured and alone,” Pansy whispered solemnly. Draco had to agree. Where was Crabbe? Dead. Goyle? St. Mungo's. Nott? France.

 

“I hear you are engaged,” Draco said when she pulled away, for want of another subject.

 

“She is,” Blaise commented quietly as he finished off his wine, “To that little shit. Not sure how she puts up with him.” It was fortunate that Draco already knew that Blaise was referring to Zacharias Smith, because the manor's enchantment wouldn't allow him to say the name.

 

“All that Hufflepuff gold, I suspect,” Draco smirked. Pansy returned the smile.

 

“I happen to love my fiance!” she replied, falsely scandalized as she swatted Draco's arm. She then turned to Blaise. “You're just jealous that your own half-blood wife isn't nearly so rich.”

 

“I didn't need a rich one. My family didn't have to pay any reparations. I just needed to show them I wasn't biased,” Blaise scoffed, “The things we do to survive...” He grabbed another drink off a servant passing with a tray, and then levitated two more over to Draco and Pansy. He lifted his glass to them both.

 

“To survival,” he said.

 

“To money,” added Pansy.

 

“To what makes us Slytherin,” said Draco, “Now and forever.”

 

The hours slipped by painfully fast, aided by the burning spirits. Draco found himself laughing more than he was talking and more than once he lost himself for a while; forgot how old he was, how the outside world had changed even if this damned masquerade hadn't.

 

Luna Lovegood was the first to approach their trio and join their conversation for a time, looking strange as ever in a garish purple dress and a pair of strange spectacles serving as her mask.

 

“Hello Mr. Peacock. I haven't seen you in a long time,” she opened with her weird cheeriness. They hadn't spoken since she'd been a prisoner at the manor. How awkward.

 

“No... I don't get out much these days,” Draco answered for lack of anything better to say. Blaise coughed in the silence that followed.

 

“Did you ever get rid of that nargle infestation in your basement?” the girl pressed on, as if that had been the biggest issue with her stay in Draco's dungeon.

 

“I don't think so,” Draco answered slowly, feeling as though he was speaking to a child. Or feeling perhaps like a child, as he was uncertain as to what a nargle was.

 

As short and awkward as that interaction was, it did open the floodgates for all the rest. Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey happened over shortly afterwords with their dates in tow, apparently deciding it was now safe to approach. They spoke to Draco briefly, reminiscing with him over their days on the school quidditch team, what felt like a lifetime ago. Millicent came after them, chatting mostly with Pansy but not failing to acknowledge Draco respectfully.

 

He was beginning to feel like the prince he'd once been when Astoria Greengrass and her elder sister stopped to speak with them on their way across the ballroom. Daphne's husband maintained a cold distance, as did Astoria's date (some Ravenclaw). Speaking with her made Draco realize that his old life might not be out of reach forever. He could claw his way back up to the top and claim all that was rightfully his, including Astoria Greengrass. This one night was proof. Yet did he want it anymore? Where was the line between what Lucius Malfoy had wanted and what Draco Malfoy now wanted? Had it ever existed?

 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, but I know that'd be asking for too much,” came a dark comment from behind. Draco turned to meet it, finding himself face to face with a mask of white swan feathers.

 

“Ah, the weaselette,” Draco drawled, realizing he was far drunker on wine and ambiance than he'd intended to be at this point in the night. He felt the magic tingle around his tongue at his last word, it being so close to the girl's true surname.

 

“Maybe you thought no one would notice the sick little game you're playing, but you're wrong,” the redhead continued, absolutely lit with righteous fury. Draco glanced behind her, noting that the man she'd come with was unmistakably Dean Thomas. “If you don't take off that horrid mask, I'll make sure you're removed. You and whoever was stupid enough to bring you.”

 

_Do it. I've had my fun,_ Draco wanted to say, but he took a moment, sipped his glass and thought of something better.

 

“Where's the precious _Savior_?”

 

“He doesn't come to these things.”

 

“Don't be so sure. I know for a fact he arrived with someone else. Did you tire of him the same as all the others? Or did he finally come to his senses and decide he didn't want to settle for something so cheap?”

 

The resounding crack of her palm against his face was loud enough to cause everyone nearby to turn to them. Draco's mask flew from his face and landed on the floor. The Weasley girl promptly crushed it under the heel of her white pump.

 

“You're a disgrace to the name of wizard,” she hissed.

 

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard,” Draco sneered, reaching up to stem the bloodflow from the gouges her nails had left on his jaw. Ginerva seemed to think she'd come out on top, and stalked away haughtily without a response, all but dragging her date along with her.

 

“The little harlot has gotten quite uppity,” Pansy said, once the attention had shifted away from their group again. She produced her wand and the pieces of Draco's mask melted together again before flying up into Pansy's hand. She sealed his cuts and positioned the mask back over Draco's eyes. “Though I hope she doesn't have the power to make good on her threat. This party will be dreadfully boring without you.” Pansy downed her entire glass and set it onto a nearby table. She then took Draco's hand.

 

“Come,” she said, “You owe me a dance. For old times' sake.”

 

“You'll send your doting suitor into a terrible rage,” Blaise noted with some amusement, chancing a discreet glance back at the other end of the room where Smith, in an eagle feather mask, seemed to be watching Pansy for suspicious behavior.

 

“I'm counting on it,” Pansy replied, pulling Draco into the swirling mass of people gathered upon the dance floor. Her dress of gold satin and layers of shimmery chiffon was striking against the mostly darker colors of what the others were wearing and he'd no doubt that the pair of them would quickly steal the show. The wine had him pleasantly buzzing. Draco had never been much of a drinker. As a child he'd turned his nose up at the taste and as he aged... well by the time his parents would have deemed him old enough to become properly sloshed the Dark Lord was already coming and going from the manor. Only his father had been bold enough to become inebriated in the Dark Lord's presence, and that was only after he'd lost favor and decided there was little else worth living for.

 

The musicians played a classic German piece which called for a waltz. Draco led Pansy in the slow steps, holding her and twirling her as the music commanded. There was giddy laughter on the tips of their tongues and they were both soon breathless, even simple as the dance was. They were making a spectacle of themselves, as few others were putting in so much enthusiasm, but that was the point, wasn't it?

 

Draco allowed Pansy to spiral away from him, only to find her promptly locked in the arms of another man. Zacharias Smith glared daggers at him from beneath his mask and soon led Pansy back to his conceited, little Hufflepuff crowd, one that included Ernie Macmillan, and Draco knew their time was spent.

 

He stood, alone, on the dance floor. Though it had been expected, Draco felt very empty all of a sudden.

 

“I could take her place, you know.”

 

He turned around to see Potter holding out a waiting hand. Draco cocked his head to the side, considering. The music had changed. Now the musicians plucked out a lascivious, Spanish tune and a waltz simply would not do. He invited Potter to dance more fitting, sliding forward with one arm arced over his head. To his immense surprise, Potter mirrored him, albeit less gracefully. They came together, locking arms and intertwining legs.

 

The magic hit him full force this time, and Draco realized he had completely forgotten why he'd been so careful all these weeks to not touch Potter. Potter growled, low and feral, burying his face into Draco's exposed neck. Their dance was not interrupted, but it did change. It became wild and passionate and messy. Potter insisted on leading, much to Draco's frustration. The rest of the world seemed to disintegrate around them until they were the only ones in it.

 

There was something both horribly right and horribly wrong about this. Dizzy, Draco found himself lowered into a dip and he stared up into Potter's green eyes, into the dark depths he found there. Harry was kissing him, lips questing over Draco's own after their steps led them together again, and for a moment Draco was distracted, for a moment he gave in and his hands lifted to run themselves through Potter's glamoured hair.

 

“We're leaving. Now.” Potter panted, and Draco found he couldn't find it in himself to argue, but there was a tiny part of himself that was fighting, that was aware. It just wasn't strong enough to be anything other than an annoyance.

 

They left the manor and Potter side-alonged him back to Hogsmede. It must have been the sudden disorientation of it that left Draco clear-headed for a moment.

 

“Potter, what is happening? What is this?” he said weakly, his voice sounding far away even to himself. Potter ignored him and began to drag him down the dirt road that would lead back to Hogwarts.

 

Ten minutes later, Draco realized he was still stumbling along after Potter. There was a force urging him on, a force not allowing himself to break the hold that Potter had on his wrist. He wanted something, and his more logical thoughts were telling him this would only lead to a drunken shag in Hagrid's filthy hovel.

 

But that wasn't quite right. He wanted Potter, but he didn't _want_ him. He didn't want his body, nothing so shallow as that. It was his magic. Inescapable. All-consuming. His deepest desire was to drown himself in it. He wanted it to own him, to claim him, to make him whole again in a way that he hadn't felt in so long, or perhaps ever.

 

Potter's magic... was calling to him, seducing him, dragging him down into darkness...

 

“Enough.” Draco finally wrenched himself free. They stood in the swaying grass of the pumpkin patch. The air was cold, the temperature having plummeted once the sun had gone down. The night was clear, with the full moon huge and tinged with red, hanging low in the sky.

 

“Don't deny me again,” Potter warned. He said it with his back to Draco, but suddenly he whirled around, and the wand that was in his hand was raised. Draco stared at the holly wand only inches from his face. If he hadn't yet been convinced that there was something off about the other man, he was certain now. Potter, Merlin bless his soul, was too _good_ for this.

 

But Draco was, of course, unarmed, and now at the mercy of a man who was not in his right mind. His own focus was slipping. It was as though things were happening too fast for him to react. He might have blamed the wine if he didn't already know better.

 

He turned to flee, even as the magical presence that had taken hold chanted for him to stay. The yawning depths of the forbidden forest were not so far. Perhaps, for once, it might provide him a safe haven. His legs were unsteady beneath him.

 

“ _Incarcerous,”_ came Potter's rough voice. Draco managed to duck beneath the first spell, but the second one hit him square in the back. He stumbled onto the dirt, mask slipping off of his face. The vines of the surrounding pumpkin plants came to life and curled around his limbs. Draco thrashed about, flipping onto his back and eyeing Potter's approach with trepidation.

 

“Potter, get a hold of yourself!” he hissed, “Don't do this!” As he spoke, he felt the ground beneath him grow warm. A circle had appeared around the two of them, stamped into the grass and glowing with runes and symbols.

 

The same conjuration circle that had been in his nightmares for many months now.

 

“ _Do you wish to serve me, Draco?”_ a phantom whispered, a shade of the old nightmare. Panic seized him, rooting him in place more effectively than the vines ever could.

 

Potter was peering down at him, head blocking out the moonlight, face cast in the night's shadow but lit from below by the soft glow of the conjuration circle. The glamors had all faded away and the breeze blew the dark hair our of Potter's face for a moment, allowing Draco to see his scar.

 

He swallowed thickly, knowing with clarity that this was no nightmare. This thing between him and Potter, it was most definitely magic. Magic left over from a time during the war. Magic that was most definitely _not_ Potter's. It was not possible.

 

“You're a monster!” Draco yelled hoarsely, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as he glanced away, unable to look at those eyes any longer, burdened with this new revelation. “And you've been among us all this time! You belong in a cell... or dead!”

 

Potter was not listening to him, caught up in the throes of what Draco could now only assume was a form of demonic possession. Potter clamped a hand over his mouth before he could expel more useless insults or allow his cries for help to be lost to the autumn winds.

 

He felt it as the left sleeve of his dress robes was yanked up to his elbow and his Dark Mark was bared to the night air. Fingers caressed his skin, sending fire and magic into his veins. He was burning. He was screaming. The pain was not something the Cruciatus even held a candle to, because the Cruciatus was not a malevolent force in itself. It did not thrust into one's soul and deposit its horrors. It did not linger and marvel at the perfect desecration it had caused.

 

Draco recalled the first time he had felt this agony in a spike of fevered memory. A vision of himself, lying upon the floor of the Lestrange manor, gritting his teeth whilst his blood left his body at an alarming rate. He'd watched as it filled the grooves of the conjuration circle, making orderly, red lines in the white marble. He remembered holding back his screams as the magic did its work. He could reveal no weakness. There had been a voice speaking above him, unconcerned with his suffering.

 

“ _Impressive, Draco. You show more fortitude than your father ever has.”_

 

He'd felt weak as he'd struggled to look up at the Dark Lord. Breathing had been difficult. Unconsciousness had been creeping in.

 

“ _You are being entrusted with the most crucial of tasks. My last line of defense. Should all else fail,_ _ **you**_ _will provide me... a way back.”_

 

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

He regained consciousness at dawn, when the first rays of morning shone in the eastern part of the sky. He didn't remember when he had succumbed, but it had been a mercy.

 

Every muscle in his body was trembling with fatigue. His dress robes were drenched in perspiration and now he was freezing in the November, morning air. The world around him was frighteningly peaceful. Dew was glistening on the ripe pumpkins clustered off to the sides. A bird cawed somewhere overhead. In the distance, the night's fog was parting to reveal Hogwarts in full splendor.

 

Potter's holly wand was lying in the grass right within Draco's line of vision. Slowly, he lifted his head and found that Potter himself was lying a few feet away, unmoving aside from the slightest rise and fall of his chest. No evidence of the night before remained.

 

Draco clenched his hand around the holly wand as he stumbled to his feet. His breath misted in the crisp air, partially obscuring his vision as he pointed it at Potter.

 

Potter was darkness incarnate, though perhaps not in the same way the Dark Lord had been. Draco had been around darkness long enough to recognize it when he saw it. Killing Potter might just be doing the world a favor.

 

“ _Draco, Draco, you are not a killer,”_ Dumbledore's voice taunted him in his head, _“I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe. …”_ His hand tightened on the wand. But that innocence was what started this in the first place. If only he'd been a little less _innocent_ , things would have been so much different. He would have saved himself so much humiliation. He would have saved his parents so much shame on his behalf. He would have spared himself from whatever had gone on last night.

 

“ _You're a coward Draco. You'll always be a coward.”_ No, Dumbledore had never said those words. Those were of Draco's own making, but they weren't any less true.

 

He heard himself let out a disgusting sound. Something between a snarl and a whimper.

 

The holly wand fell onto the grass once again. Draco took a step backwards. Then two. Then he was fleeing to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds and apparating away.

 


	5. chapter 5

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

Draco held the lantern out in front of him, letting it illuminate the path before him. Darkness had long fallen and the grounds of Malfoy Manor were cast in shadow. He had left behind the perfect, manicured garden area and now followed the narrow, gravel road that led into the woods beyond. Two hundred acres of dense forest could hide many things. Draco did not doubt that these woods held more dangerous Malfoy secrets than the mansion ever would. It was quite fortunate that even the Aurors that had come to strip the place again and again both before and after the Dark Lord's return had been hesitant to fully investigate what might lie within the trees.

 

Draco knew the path was charmed to repel the forest creatures, but he could still hear them rustling in the brush nearby, hooting and cawing and screeching. His hand kept drifting to where he normally kept his wand and he was becoming frustrated at its absence. As a child, his father had warned him never to come into the woods alone and never after dark, but he was a child no longer. The place he needed to go only revealed its entrance in the deepest part of the night.

 

After the disastrous night spent in the pumpkin patch, Draco had returned home and slept for two days. He felt feverish, he felt foreign magic coursing through his veins that his body was working to purge, but was unsuccessful. It left his hands shaking and everything else weak and aching.

 

It seemed impossible that Potter would be able to awaken that... curse. Draco had assumed that such magic would have died with the Dark Lord. How could he have been so naive? Potter was able to channel the magic of a dead man. How? This was the question that needed answering before any other conclusions could be drawn.

 

Draco came upon the gnarled tree he sought. He pricked his finger with a sharp blade and held the small bead of blood over a particularly large knot in the wood until it splashed upon it. The outline of a door appeared upon the tree. Draco pushed it open to reveal a set of stairs that led under the forest floor.

 

It had been a wine cellar at once point in time, and at another it had been used as a place to imprison and torture muggles. Draco passed the old oak barrels and crumbling holding cells, disinterested. He entered into a better kept room behind an iron door.

 

Artifacts, some behind glass cases, were displayed as trophies. Glass jars held human body parts and stoppered phials of various, unknown potions were arranged carefully upon a table in the corner. There were numerous bookshelves upon which sat hundreds of books. His father's private collection. These books were no longer allowed to be circulated in public. They'd be burned or confiscated due to their subject matter. Subjects that the ministry had deemed too dangerous for the honest, average, law-abiding wizard.

 

Draco stepped forward to clear the dust from their spines, plucking out a few as he combed through the shelves. He set to work.

 

Draco's research revealed to him, in a number of hours, that magical signature was tied to the soul, indeed some magical theorists argued that the two were one and the same... and therefore muggles must be beings possessing unclean souls and should be eradicated...

 

But Draco only skimmed those parts, of course. The point was that an individual's magical signature ought to be impossible to fake. Perhaps most people would have given up there, but Draco was determined, if only because he remembered overhearing a whispered argument between his parents about the state of the Dark Lord's soul.

 

“ _I'm quite certain, Lucius. Belatrix has told me the truth.”_

 

“ _It doesn't matter so long as he gets us what we want.”_

 

“ _It's taboo for a reason. He isn't whole. He isn't human anymore.”_

 

So how did one go about splitting his soul, if that was indeed the only way to copy an individual's magical signature? Draco finds an answer in a book about dragons, of all places.

 

_...It was through the ancient Celtic drakes that wizards became wise to the practice of Soul Splitting. Laticus coined this term after observing mature, self aware drakes in captivity and he rightly identified it as how they were able to sustain their lives indefinitely. The drakes, in the process of hoarding and protecting their gold, were consumed by their greed and bloodlust so entirely that they would be able to impregnate their treasures with the essence of their own magics. In more modern times, Soul Splitting is used by wizardkind, only in the most dire of circumstances, in the creation of an object called a Horcrux, a vessel in which a piece of the soul is contained temporarily..._

 

Draco thumbed through more books, a few of which required additional blood payment to unlock, and one that ordered him to recite his lineage all the way back to the tenth century. This _Horcrux_ really was among the most vile of magics. What was the point of eternal life if one had to sacrifice everything worth living for in order to gain it? It wasn't much of a trade, in Draco's opinion.

 

So was Potter in possession of the Dark Lord's Horcrux? It was the only conclusion that made sense. However, why wouldn't he have destroyed such a thing either during the course of the war or afterward?

 

Draco thought back to the battle for Hogwarts, remembering how he, Crabbe and Goyle had hidden themselves in the Room of Hidden Things to avoid the fighting... that is, until Vincent had decided that it was time to finally prove himself in the eyes of the Dark Lord by bringing in Potter. Potter and his friends had blustered in. Draco remembered Granger with her arm outstretched.

 

“ _Accio diadem!”_ she'd shouted. And later, after the room had been consumed in the blaze and Draco had climbed onto the back of Potter's broom, he remembered being outraged that Potter had gone back into the flames in order to save a fucking tiara of all things. He'd stared at that tiara hanging on Potter's arm, reflecting the bright fiendfyre, wondering what on earth could be so special about it.

 

Draco snapped the book shut and set it back on the shelf with the others, eyes hard with the decision he'd just made. He'd have to confront Potter and possibly find out how to destroy this accursed object before it could get him into further trouble.

 

Dawn had broken and the forest was lit in grey light. A gentle rain was falling over the grounds by the time that Draco had come back in sight of the manor. Now that Kreacher was in residence, Draco gave little thought to the mud and dead leaves he was tracking all over the floor.

 

His mother was in the dining hall and he was unable to sneak past her shrewd gaze.

 

“Where have you been, darling?” Narcissa called to him, sipping whatever alcoholic beverage she'd deemed a suitable breakfast. Draco clenched his fists and pasted a fake smile upon his face before joining her in the room. Her nose wrinkled as she caught sight of how filthy he was.

 

“I've been staying at Hogwarts,” Draco said to her shortly, “They have me assisting with a class.” His mother resumed flipping through the magazine in front of her. Glossy pages of witches twirling about in designer robes flashed briefly in the corner of Draco's vision.

 

“You shouldn't lie to your mother. We can always tell.” She hummed, setting the magazine down and casting a spell so that it slid all the way down the long table and stopped before Draco. Displayed was an article written about the Macmillan masquerade. There were various, potential scandals featured, as the author of the article had only pictures and speculation to go off of. This author was clearly someone who made his or her living purely on making commentary of the lives of the rich and famous. Draco supposed the Malfoys still made that list, though they were rather more infamous now. Ginerva Weasley's exploits were covered heavily, as she had not arrived at the masquerade in the company of the _Savior_ as all had expected. Seems a famous quidditch player in attendance had gotten quite drunk and made a fool of himself. And off to the side there was a picture of Draco, his likeness snogging Potter while on the dance floor in an endless loop. It would have surely been front and center if the author had recognized Potter, but the glamors had done their job.

 

_Malfoy heir turns heads, caught locking lips with mystery man!_ The caption read. The magazine as a whole was a pure-blood friendly publication, and so made little hubbub of the Malfoy sordid past, something for which he was grateful. Draco did not need to read anymore, he collected the magazine and walked it back to his mother

 

“Who is he?” Narcissa asked, wary, as he approached

 

“Must I tell you of my every sexual conquest, mother? He is no one,” Draco said weakly, his usual aloof swagger failing to come through. He could feel his mother studying him even after she'd taken the magazine and opened it up again.

 

“Just be careful, dear. I don't wish to see you get your heart broken.”

 

“There was never any danger of that. You've taught me well.” Draco replied. The latest issue of the Daily Prophet was sitting atop a pile of mail and the front page caught his attention. It was an announcement of Death Eater Augustus Rookwood's upcoming Kiss. His trial had dragged on longer than most, what with his ministry connections and the obscurity afforded to him by the Department of Mysteries. Seems in the end, it still couldn't save him. Draco found that his heart was racing and he recalled more of that night in the Lestrange manor.

 

“ _This is Augustus Rookwood.”_

 

The Dark Lord had introduced the thin, aging Death Eater to Draco, extolling his loyalty, his previous work for the ministry, his more recent experiments...

 

“ _Rookwood and I have need of you, Draco, or rather someone with your attributes.”_

 

Rookwood knew. Rookwood had been there. He'd been the one to draw the conjuration circle for the ritual.

 

He'd have answers.

 

Draco turned on his heel and left abruptly, realizing that he had an owl to send and that time was of the essence. Potter could wait. Rookwood could not.

 

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

It was an everstorm that surrounded Azkaban. The clouds masked the brightness, preventing the walls of the fortress from ever feeling the warm caress of the sun or stars. Thunder rumbled weakly in the distance, rain pooled upon rock and stone, and the ocean waves crashed against the jagged cliffs, jarring and rhythmic.

 

Two uniformed Aurors fixed a boat to the rickety docks. One extended a hand back into the interior of the small barge in order to assist a young woman. She was tiny, slim and dark-haired. A wisp of a thing. She wore a shawl to protect herself from the rain and pulled it more tightly over herself as she made her way ashore, flanked by the two Aurors.

 

The trio made their way up the winding and treacherous gravel pathway that led up into the fortress. The girl shivered as they passed through the rusted iron portcullis. A dementor floated overhead, a silent, miserable sentinel. Once inside, they were met with a wizard guard, who questioned them and searched them roughly. Nearly as decrepit as the non-human guards, the depraved man had the audacity to lay a hand upon the young woman's chest, jeering when he received no outraged reaction. The Aurors were slow to step in.

 

After being cleared, the three resumed their walk through the haunted corridors. The woman kept her gaze from wandering from side to side, unable to look upon the faces of the condemned. They reached a rather deserted wing and the two Aurors paused.

 

“Down at the end, to the right,” one of them said to the girl, “You have ten minutes.”

 

She left her escort standing at the entrance to the hall and moved forward alone. Most of the cells were empty, covered in mold and grime. It was cold and drafty, with the dampness seeping into the very stone, creating a wet, rotting stench. At the end of the hall, she came upon the cell she sought.

 

He had been a thin man before. Now he was positively skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. His hair was a wild mess of grey mats and he was dressed in a tattered shift that did little to preserve his modesty.

 

There were drawings all over the cell, scratched onto the dark stone with another rock. Diagrams and symbols mostly, but upon one wall was a crude drawing of a woman holding out her arms and a crucifix above her. Words beneath read.

 

“ _And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.”_

 

The girl shivered and the man finally came to realize that he had a visitor. He took several seconds to recognize her, blinking slowly, perhaps attempting to dispel the waking slumber that settled behind the eyes of all Azkaban's occupants.

 

“Delia?” he whispered, voice hoarse with disuse. He crawled to the cell bars and used them to hold himself up while he examined his visitor. “Delia!” he said again, eyes misting with tears, “My sweet girl. You came.” He reached a filthy hand through the bars as if to touch her, but she shrank away, disgust upon her face.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you in your final hours, Rookwood, but I am not your daughter,” the girl said in a low voice that would not carry to the end of the corridor where the Auror guards stood. Rookwood's eyes swept over her once again, as if he was second guessing his eyesight, but then he seemed to come to the proper conclusion. His face darkened.

 

“Who are you? What have you done with her?” he whispered after his gaze had briefly flickered over to the Aurors.

 

“She is safe, as long as I get the information I came for. In any case, it isn't as though you can do much for her now, close to death as you are.”

 

“You'd be surprised, stranger, of just what I am capable of, even behind these bars, even after I am gone. I have powerful friends,” the man threatened ominously.

 

“I rather think we have the same friends, or did at least. We served the same master, for a time,” the girl replied. Rookwood had a dangerous look about him now. Being assured of their mutual friends would do nothing to assuage the worry he had for the fate of his daughter.

 

“What do you want?” the decrepit man spat.

 

“Near the end of the war, you performed a complex ritual involving blood magic. I need to know the particulars,” the girl explained. Rookwood contemplated for a moment. Then, he shoved his face between the bars, lips quirked in a satisfied manner, his answer came out in a hiss of putrid breath.

 

“There were only six of us, including myself, that ever knew of that particular ritual. Four are dead,” Rookwood said pointedly. “How might I assist you... _Draco?_ ”

 

Draco pulled Delia's delicate features into a scowl. He had been hoping to conceal his identity for a while longer, let the other man think he was dealing with one of Voldemort's more threatening stooges, at least for the beginning.

 

“What was the bloody point of it?” Draco snarled. His questions ought to have been obvious. “The Dark Lord was rather vague and cryptic about the whole thing.”

 

“Anima Infractum,” Rookwood said breathlessly. “My life's work. Top secret within the ministry, and I have little doubt it will remain so after I am gone. Nothing of a dark nature that comes out of the Department of Mysteries is ever permitted to see the light of day.”

 

“But what is it, exactly? A curse?” Draco spat impatiently.

 

“It has no official classification. Personally, I've always considered it a type of evocation.”

 

“Evocation?”

 

“The summoning of a dark creature,” Rookwood clarified. “It has been attempted many times throughout history, but, to my knowledge, has been successful only once, in the early years of the Imperial Roman Empire.”

 

“How is it done?”

 

“It is very complicated,” the disgusting man sputtered, clearly aghast at the thought of having to explain it right then and there.

 

“I've no doubt. Give me your best summary, Rookwood, or your girl might soon be joining you in the afterlife,” Draco finally leveled his threat. Rookwood didn't need to know that Delia had willingly given him her hair for this endeavor. The Rookwoods owed the Malfoys a debt from generations ago. Draco had called it in. Delia had done her part, and then professed that she wished no further contact with either family.

 

“There are three rituals,” Rookwood began bitterly, “In the first, the donor marks the host. In the second, the donor activates the spell and creates the homonculus. In the third, the homonculus is... harvested.” Rookwood smiled then, as if he realized why Draco had come to him. “You needn't fear, Draco. What you experienced was merely the first ritual that must be undertaken, completely harmless on its own. And with the Dark Lord gone, Anima Infractum will have no effect on your life.”

 

“And if he wasn't gone?” Draco demanded. Rookwood let out a nervous laugh. Draco thrust Delia's petite arm through the bars and dragged the older man up against them painfully, forcing him to consider the possibility with some sincerity. “What then?”

 

Rookwood's weak eyes searched Draco's borrowed face, doubtful, wary, wanting a confirmation for what Draco had just suggested. Manicured fingers released their hold upon Rookwood's tattered garment.

 

“Can it be activated by an outsider?” Draco rephrased the question.

 

“No,” Rookwood said, quite certain. “Not unless the person can somehow mimic the magical signature of the original donor. Very nearly impossible.”

 

“Possible, then.” Draco surmised. The prisoner turned away to pace a few steps.

 

“No, no. Not in this instance, I should think. The wizard would have to have knowledge of the ritual. And it would require the possession of a type of... very dark artifact,” Rookwood said, hand rubbing his beard as he continued to pace, mind working furiously now. He suddenly paused, remembering something. “...an artifact that the Dark Lord was rumored to have created.”

 

_A Horcrux..._

 

This time, it was Rookwood who was at the bars again. He snatched Draco's- or rather Delia's- left arm, perhaps momentarily forgetting there would be nothing there.

 

“Has it begun?” the ragged man asked, old passion reignited, eyes alight with the possibilities. “The second phase? Will the Dark Lord return again?”

 

Draco wrenched his arm away as the horror sank in and he felt as though he might vomit. He took a few wobbly steps backward, made all the more unsteady by Delia's heeled shoes, and he found himself grabbing the opposite wall for support. Rookwood was speaking again, pleading, beseeching.

 

“Get me out of this place. You need me. You'll die without me. Only my research can save you now!”

 

Draco shook his head, arms coming up to hold himself. He didn't want to be anyone's experiment, or any sort of conduit for dark magic. He wanted nothing more to do with the man before him. Nothing more to do with the Dark Lord. Why was this happening to him? Just when he finally thought he could be free of all of it.

 

“Ms. Rookwood, are you alright?”

 

The Aurors had come, drawn over by Rookwood's sudden lunge for him. The old man now lied stupefied in his cell for the transgression.

 

“My father is quite mad,” Draco said quietly, pulling Delia's shawl around himself. “I wish to leave now.”

 

.o.o.o.o.o.

 

 


End file.
